Espionage

I am to travel as "myself," the Western artist, in company with other artistic types as pretext for our journey, going so far as to pose as a Copperhead if need be. I am thinking of taking Fitz Hugh Ludlow, the writer for the New York Post who has written favorably about my painting, with me as a companion. He seems a likable enough fellow, and I remember meeting him in Waterville at his father-in-law's house, and fishing his fiance out of the creek. Anyone who marries a woman like that can't be entirely a fool. He is sociable and good-looking, and can ride, and shoot, and talks a good yarn, although he writes a tolerable amount of nonsense and he made a great name for himself writing about taking hasheesh when he was a younger man, which gave him a great reputation. But I cannot imagine he has kept on with that, otherwise he would not have such a redoubtable old bear of a banker as a father-in-law. Old Amos would not allow it. My superiors here, at any rate, have looked into his background and found him to be a dyed in the wool abolitionist (a bit too hot-headed, perhaps) but also a social climber. It is felt that the editor of Harpers can be prevailed upon to give him some writing assignment to make the whole thing come together without any appearance of contrivance on my part. So it will be.